


Clip Clip Clip

by Wasabee (orphan_account)



Category: Hazbin Hotel (Web Series)
Genre: Blood, F/M, Fluff, Gardens & Gardening, Oneshot, Sweet, shameless self insert
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-04
Updated: 2019-12-04
Packaged: 2021-02-26 00:28:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,729
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21674482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/Wasabee
Summary: A birthday present for the wonderful Juno - we hope you like it you gorgeous girl featuring none other than yourself, Alastor and some roses! 🎉🌹🌹🌹
Relationships: Juno/Alastor (Hazbin Hotel)
Comments: 12
Kudos: 15





	Clip Clip Clip

**Author's Note:**

> **HAPPY BIRTHDAY!** Apple and I thought we'd give you a little gift...enjoy ❤

The familiar, daily routine was grueling to say the least; miniscule snippets of the cutters could only allude to a presence within the _courtyard_ \- a quaint display shrouded by flourishing displays of red, their petals strong and wealthy. A glassy resin coated their thorns by the droplet, a most sweet, life-giving nectar. Their vines, how they twisted, constricting into a labyrinth of green ornate with teeth - _sharp, knife-like… dangerous._  
The sheer size of the rosefields were breathtaking in scope; one could only imagine what sort of backbreaking labor the gardener had to endure to achieve such a feat - each segment cut to perfection, forming a bushel of sorts neatly rowed, a dilapidated fountain built in their wake. 

Indeed the work was mundane-- _boring and so very time consuming._ That’s why _she_ only watched the expertise at work, his claws carefully approaching the stem; cupping its delicate mass in those elegant fingers before _snipping_ its lifeline.  
Removing the head, followed by that mangled stem was placed into a woven basket brimming with its brethren. How full the basket was, both sanguine and crimson flowers threatening to fall from such a height; the elderly of the bunch crying tears that were no more than petals, aimlessly drifting to the beaten path company strode. 

One, her uniform unkempt and hurriedly fastened, stood with those rose-tinted lens - grasping the gardener’s burden in her palms as she failed a mighty trial: _patience_ , acceptance of menial tasks needed to be fulfilled. 

“ _Why not remove the thorns?_ ” She asks, the solemn ‘snipping’ needed accompaniment. Raising the bunch to peer at them, dissecting how _perfectly_ they’ve been cut, their majesty nearly unscathed and so, so _gorgeous._

“ _Juno,_ my darling--” the gardener begun, placing yet another unfortunate beauty into her hold, “I… enjoy the thorns!” brandishing a vine, he declared this, using such a thing to tie the bushel into a neat load. A large grin greeted her expression, reminiscent of sharp spines and _perhaps just as dangerous._

“ _These will make fine rose water,_ ” he mumbled - albeit louder than necessary. How could he help it? With such a strong vocal and chipper attitude, it was difficult to not remain loudly enthusiastic. An enthusiasm that _Juno, darling,_ could only crave in the most wretched places. _Hell_ was indeed one of those places, where no happiness flourished and certainly no hope retained… bitterness stood rampant, the damned domineered. 

_It were moments like these that she cherished. Slow and calm._

“ _Alastor?_ ” she questioned, a response was a hum - a tune they kept close to one another, “ _Why_ do you like such things? It seems a bit odd, _if I may?_ ” A posh chuckle followed in tandem, his large form turning and leaning to face her as if she was a shining item of entertainment. Those static ambiences he carried seemed to fleet in these moments, _he handed her the clippers._

“Because they’re _dangerous,_ ” he rolled her fingers to clasp the tool, “a rose is an object of defense, a harbinger of beauty - _like many others_ , but who wishes to see the mundane?” Exclaiming, Alastor motioned towards the array of natural ornaments with a child-like fondness, “Thorns,” he repeats, “-- _catalysts of pain_ , a part of such an elegant rose secluded from perpetrators! ... _They’re quite special, aren’t they?”_

 _The Radio Demon_ adjusted his monocle, still craned at a leer towards his helper who now held both the tools and the knowledge to apply _contribution_ to his work.

“ _Come now,_ ” with the same elegance as the roses he’d been tending to, he relieved her of the basket with a light hum, “there’s still work to be done, plenty of practice for the budding gardener you are.” With basket set to one side, he waited, his patience unmatched as he stared at the woman expectantly, if not with delight.

It was only a matter of _which_ rose would taste the cool embrace of the blades first, and then it came down to skill. 

From the observations contrived from her company, she almost felt intimidated. _Intimidation_ was the wrong word, rather she felt the pressure of living up to the unspoken expectations; attentive eyes watching her every slight motion. The absence of any hesitation as she finally chose a victim, the gentle way in which she took the rose beneath the head, an action derived from fear much else any sense of consideration for the flower.

It was a fear of the thorns that laced its side like concealed daggers beneath the beauty. 

_Clip._

An audible sigh didn’t help in reassuring her as the stem came loose. Uncertainty driving her actions, she held it towards Alastor. Under his scrutinous eye, he pinched it between the pads of his two digits; inspecting her handiwork. 

“Again, my dear, once isn’t enough for you to show any real _skill._ ” So she complied, another snip relieving another rose from it’s home only for the previous sigh to become a curt ‘ _-tch_ ’. 

“If we were butchering an innocent person I would commend you…” he began, moulding his hands over hers, another sigh brushing past his lips, “ _that’s a task for another day though!_ ” Although her entire body had tensed at the action, he guided her hands like a puppeteer; explaining the ‘proper’ technique in that chipper tone. The brush of his suit against her only made her skin crawl, the static pricking it at every opportunity. He practically hung over her smaller frame, merrily losing himself in the slight technicalities associated with the talent.

“See, if you angle the blades like this, then it makes for a neater cut.” He hummed, tilting her wrist, chuckling to himself. “Yes, much better, _aaand-_ ” he tapped a claw against the back of her hand; indicating for her to perform her duty. Squeezing the handles, she sliced into the stem; Alastor pressing gently against her back as he reached for the rose. At a loss for words, she allowed him to take it, rocking back on his heels and taking to her side; a broad grin etched into his features as he leant down - the rose held before his expression. 

“Perfect.” 

He stood proudly, _adoringly_ as he watched her behead them all; the technique he had taught his little pupil surely used for better. It made him _smile_. 

She was a wonderful company, really - how positively delighted he is to see his companion, her work so fruitful because of his teachings; _Juno_ was always so polite, so equolent, so poised, it rivaled his own elegance. His eyes trailed down, noting her posture with only a tilt of his head and a narrow of those large eyes.

_She dressed wonderfully too--_

_Oh, dear_ \- he felt another internal tangent bubbling up about her. He had these often and usually didn’t speak of them, keeping such things to himself was a necessity in a place such as this - but perhaps with her, that _diamond in the rough,_ he could once be truthful.

The passing of the hues were the only indication of their time together, the sky falling from a stunning vibrant hue to something of a darker shade, something diluted as the warmer temperature grew cooler. _And they were there,_ enjoying one another’s company as she’d practiced her skills, by the coming of dusk she’d only masterfully clipped, snipped and rid that portion of the garden’s roses - surrendered to those blades and sacrificed into that olden basket.

She turned, her poor glasses blinded by the condensation of the climate - _but a gentle hand removed them_ \- going about cleaning them with a handkerchief as she only stared, waiting in patient silence for the return of such a prized object. _Humming,_ of course, filled the quiet as he seemingly took great care in ensuring every impurity was removed from the lens.

 _He didn’t hand them back,_ instead delicately placing them into their rightful spot as if she were a porcelain doll; Alastor was careful not to break her, _pleasant company was such a rare commodity,_ yet she was much more than that. 

When she looks at him, he couldn’t help but feel as though she’s a _treasure_ , a _charm_ the likes he hadn’t encountered before - he grasped his burden for further use, his other claws proceeding to wrap around her hand as he lowered his head.

The moment she questioned such an act, he smiled curtly at her, “What sort of gentleman would I be if I didn’t _thank_ favors?” he defended, dipping his head almost painfully to place the smallest, most gentle kiss on her smaller hand - showing his pleasure of working with her, the time he spent with that doll unforgotten, stored in his mind carefully, clasping onto it in desperation in fear of such a precious thing fleeting from him. 

She’d almost recoiled at his kiss, but her appendage was soon returned and she stood awkwardly for a moment, fumbling over her words as he rose again; his brow cocked at her expression, _it was endearing._

But then, he heard a small groan come from the woman as if she were displeased, and this almost made him frown. She inspected her finger closely, small rivulets of blood spilling from an almost invisible wound - Juno scoffed, as if annoyed by the sudden development.

A thorn must’ve caught her as she pulled her arm back--

He almost sighed, eyeing the basketful of roses as if were sentient and did such a thing _on purpose._ He grinned, arms splayed outwards as if beckoning her towards the confines of the hotel -- rest sounded alluring. Letting the crimson from her wound _drip,_ following his long strides hurriedly with her quicker, shorter ones; words of complaint drifting from her often, mostly about how a _bandage_ was needed. Alastor almost scoffed.

“My wound--” she quipped, and that was all that took Alastor to spin on his heel, striding towards her with refrained haste. 

“Let’s see,” he cooed, once again taking her hand, vice like grip softening upon impact; albeit her face had been dyed a rosey red, “ah, it’s just a small cut. Nothing to fret about, my dear.” Without another word, he’d lift her hand with a dainty touch - drawing his tongue across the length of her bloodied digit, gaze not shifting from her for an instant. Her hand remained in place even as he let go, wiping the corner of his smiling mouth with his thumb. 

_“You should be careful, darling~”_


End file.
